


Have You Heard About The Morstans?

by sunken_standard



Series: Have You Heard About the Morstans? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Gore, Molly Hooper is Mary Morstan, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an attempt by Moriarty's men on her life, Molly is forced to assume the identity of Mary Morstan when she enters the witness protection program.  (Not Series 2 compliant, see notes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have You Heard About The Morstans?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting some of my older works to AO3; the original (with lots of silly mistakes) can be found on my LiveJournal. This story was originally posted January 9th, 2011 and beta read by herovillain.

 

Molly was just finishing sewing up the Y-incision on a stabbing victim when two men in black suits entered the morgue.

 

“Are you Molly Hooper?” the shorter of the two asked.

 

“Yes. Can I, um, help you with something?”

 

“Ma'am, we'll need you to come with us.”

 

“I'm sorry, but what's this about?” Possibilities raced through her head. “Is it Jim? Have they found him?” She'd only contacted the police an hour ago, but the woman she'd talked to had said that an investigation could take some time, since he'd already been missing for five days.

 

“I'm sorry ma'am, we're not at liberty to say. If you would, please?”

 

Molly felt a sudden apprehension. Who were these men? Her phone chimed from her pocket. She hastily removed her gloves and flipped up the clear plastic splatter guard over her face. She fished the phone out from the slit in her surgical gown and thumbed open the text message from a restricted number.

 

**Men in morgue MI5. Go with them. -SH**

 

She looked up at them. One was turned toward the door, watching the entrance. The other stood still, his eyes roving over the examination room and the observation window.

 

“Ms. Hooper? We really must insist you come with us, now.”

 

Molly quickly shed the rest of her autopsy gear and began to take it to the decontamination area. The man at the door cocked his head as if listening to something and barked, “Leave it!” He addressed the other man. “Two possibles just sighted entering through the west exit. We need to move.”

 

The taller of the two strode over to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her to the doors.

 

“What's going on? Where are you taking me? I need my bag!”

 

“I'm sorry, ma'am, there's no time. Your life is in danger.”

 

Molly didn't know what to do, so she allowed herself to be pulled along and out the hallway. The shorter man stopped for a moment and quickly changed directions. He drew a gun from under his jacket. The taller did the same, turning to her and squeezing her arm. “Stay quiet,” he said.

 

As they rounded the corner to the main corridor, the lift doors dinged. After that, everything happened very fast. Two men stepped out of the lift, one dressed like a business man, the other looking like he'd been plucked straight from a council estate. The taller man who'd been pulling her along pushed her flat against the wall and adopted a shooting stance. The shorter man dropped to a crouch as the business man pulled a gun from inside his coat. The chav in the puffer jacket reached for the waistband of his baggy jeans. Two shots rang out close enough to be simultaneous. The businessman's face exploded, blood spraying everywhere. He stayed standing for a split second and crumbled backward into the lift. The chav was thrown sideways into the wall with the force of the impact from the shot to his chest. 

 

The taller man pulled Molly up the stairs and toward the ambulance bay where a black car with tinted windows was waiting. Molly was unceremoniously shoved inside and the two men followed her in. The car peeled out and into the nighttime traffic. The shorter man tilted his head and barked something into his collar, but Molly couldn't make it out. Her ears were still ringing from the gunshots. The men kept their focus on checking the side and rear windows, guns at the ready.

 

Molly realized dully that her teeth were chattering. And she was still wearing green autopsy wellies and her lab coat.

 

“Just hang in there, Ms. Hooper. We're taking you to a safe place,” the taller man said, still watching the windows.

 

They entered an underground car park a few minutes later. Molly was transferred to the back of a van along with the two agents. Once in the van, the woman who'd been sitting in the passenger seat asked her for her phone. Molly passed it over and the woman wasted no time popping off the cover and removing the circuitry. She connected it to her laptop and tapped away at the keyboard. The woman touched the Bluetooth earpiece tucked behind her hair. “Sir? Very good, sir.” She tapped the earpiece again and handed her phone to Molly. “Someone would like to speak with you.”

 

Molly held the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

 

“Ms. Hooper,” an oily, posh voice began. “There's no need to worry. You're currently en route to a safe location. Has anyone in your family or immediate acquaintance come in to contact with your ...boyfriend Jim?” The man put a strange and somewhat disdainful inflection on the word 'boyfriend.'

 

“Um, no, I don't think so. No, wait. My friend, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And that little man that follows him around... John something, I think. Why? What is this about?”

 

“I'm sorry I can't explain now, Ms. Hooper. Are you sure that's everyone?” A pause. “Very well. The situation will be explained when you arrive at your destination.” The line went dead.

 

Molly handed the phone back to the woman in the front seat. She stared blankly at the padded side of the van and wished she knew what was going on. She cried a little, but got herself under control before she went into shock.

 

They'd driven for at least two hours, most of which had been in London. Molly could tell by the noise and number of turns. The road straightened out and the sound diminished to the steady hum of the van's wheels and other cars going in the same direction they were. The MI5 agents stayed silent and vigilant the whole time. When the van finally stopped, the taller man helped Molly out and gave her a curt nod. She was led into a small cottage by another woman dressed in a sharp pencil skirt and silk blouse. Molly could hear the ocean and smell salt in the air.

 

Once inside the door, the woman handed her a brand new pair of casual flats.

 

“Thank you,” Molly said absently.

 

The woman gave her a small, genuine smile. “This way.”

 

Molly could hear familiar overlapping male voices shouting as she was led through the house and into the kitchen. An elderly woman pressed a mug of tea into her hand as she walked through the door. Inside, Sherlock stood dressed in a pair of jeans and a jumper, bellowing at his companion. An older man in a crisp suit stood off to the side, watching them and swishing an umbrella back and forth. Various other people scurried to and fro.

 

“-If someone hadn't pushed me into the pool-”

 

“Oh, and we're back to that again!” John, Sherlock's friend, threw his hands in the air and stomped away. “We can get you a new phone, and a new watch, and a new suit!”

 

“Gentlemen, please,” the older man said. He shifted his focus to Molly and gave her a piercing gaze. “Ms. Hooper.”

 

John and Sherlock both turned to look at her. John offered a drawn smile, while Sherlock only gave her a once-over before turning back to the table, intent on the papers spread over the top.

 

“What-” she took a sip of tea and tried again. “What's going on?”

 

“Gale? If you could escort Ms. Hooper to the lounge and explain? Thank you.”

 

The woman who'd given her the shoes, Gale, led her into a cosy sitting room and guided her to an armchair. The older woman fussed about until Sherlock called out from the kitchen, “Mrs. Hudson! We need more tea!”

 

The woman bustled away, muttering something about not being a housekeeper.

 

By the time Gale finished explaining Molly felt sick. So it had all been a lie. Of course. She'd liked Jim, very much. And he'd liked her, or so she'd thought. And, in the end, just like everything else in her life, it had been about Sherlock. She hated him. Both 'hims,' Sherlock and Jim. And now she was stuck in this cottage, an MI6 safe-house, with a dozen SIS agents, the man she'd had a crush on for months, his tag-along, and their landlady.

 

The woman said her family had been put under surveillance as a cautionary measure. Worse, Molly would most likely be placed in witness protection, since she'd had the most contact with Jim and he didn't leave any loose ends. She could deal with being used, it had happened before, but leaving her life behind? She loved her job, she loved her flat.

 

The thought of never seeing Toby again finally sent her over the edge and she had to stifle a sob. Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady, brought her tissues and more tea. The woman sat down in the chair Gale had vacated and offered her platitudes while patting her knee.

 

\----

 

The next week was a bit of a blur to Molly. Everyone had cleared out, save for Sherlock and John. The MI5 agents, including the man in the suit who'd turned out to be Sherlock's older brother, had left hours after Molly's arrival. Mrs. Hudson had been installed back at Baker Street - under heavy guard - two days later. Different agents posing as tourists were stationed nearby. She wasn't allowed outside and there was no telly in the house. No reading materials either, save for the classified files littering every available surface. Mostly, Molly just tried to keep out of the way when not making tea or meals or answering very personal questions about her relationship with Jim. On one such occasion, she finally snapped and yelled at Sherlock.

 

“He wasn't gay! We did things!”

 

“Oh please, Molly, a fumble on the couch while watching telly is hardly an indicator of his heterosexuality. He had to convince you he was interested,” he replied offhandedly, going back to studying the papers he'd tacked to the wall of the lounge.

 

Molly's face flushed and she opened her mouth to tell him how wrong he was, but John cut in quickly.

 

“He said it himself, at the pool. _Playing_ gay. Meaning he isn't _actually_ gay.”

 

Sherlock made a rude noise. “You could stand next to Freddy Mercury and not know he was gay, for as observant as you lot are. Did you see the knot in his tie? Honestly, John.”

 

Before John could argue further, Molly screamed, “He isn't gay! I shagged him on the sofa, twice in one night!”

 

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave, still turned toward the wall. “Anyone can fake it, it's a simple physiological reaction. Really Molly, you did have medical training, you should know the mechanics of the human body.”

 

Molly recoiled as if slapped. She'd always known Sherlock was a heartless bastard, but she'd chosen to believe that somewhere under his callous manipulation he had an ounce of human feeling. Now she was sure that he lacked even that. She ran from the room before she could further embarrass herself by bursting into tears. She fled to the bedroom that had been assigned to her and slammed the door, throwing herself on the bed. She sobbed like a heartsick teenager. The muffled sounds of a shouting match floated up through the floor, then quiet.

 

There was a knock on the door and she felt a flutter of hope that Sherlock had come to apologize. She opened the door and her heart sank. John stood on the other side.

 

“Do you mind if I come in?”

 

Molly sniffled and stood back from the door, ushering him inside.

 

John paced the small area at the foot of the bed. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Just when I think he's finally begun to understand...” He shook his head, took a deep breath, and continued. “I'm sorry for the things he said to you. He refuses to believe he was wrong, and there's no getting through to him when he's like this. It wasn't right, and I'm sorry you're upset.”

 

“Thank you,” she said tightly. “You shouldn't have to apologize for him all the time.”

 

“No, I really shouldn't. Do you mind if I stay up here for a while? I don't want to be near him right now.” John walked over to the window and looked down on the small garden behind the house.

 

“It's fine.” Molly flopped on one corner of the bed. “He can be such a complete... twat!” Molly didn't normally use strong language, but she was still so angry. In for a penny, in for a pound.

 

John barked out a surprised laugh. “That he can be. He's the most brilliant man on the planet, but he just refuses to see things from anyone else's perspective.”

 

They fell silent for a short time, until Molly said, “I know he uses me, you know. To get things, from the morgue. It's just... I wanted him to notice me. And he does. Notice things. But it's not because it's _me_. I'm just a means to an end. I'm not stupid. I do know.”

 

“Sherlock uses everyone around him to his advantage. He can get me to do anything, and I'm halfway through doing it before I realize that I didn't really want to do it in the first place. You know, the only time I've ever seen him operate the kettle was to test the effects of extreme heat on the viscosity of bile?”

 

“So that's what he used it for? I did wonder.”

 

John turned and sat on the opposite side of the bed. “It was horrible. The flat smelled for a week, even after Mrs. Hudson and I scrubbed everything down. You'd do us both a favour if next time you said no to whatever he was asking.” Then John looked a bit ashamed. “Sorry, I didn't mean to be insensitive.”

 

Molly gave a watery laugh. “It's okay, you're completely right.”

 

John smiled. He sat for another moment, then pushed himself up off the bed. “I should get back down there before he tries to slip his collar. You'll be okay?”

 

Molly smiled in return. “Yeah. Thank you.”

 

\----

 

That evening, Mycroft returned with Gale in tow. They installed themselves in the lounge and Sherlock immediately launched into a diatribe to his brother about how he should be allowed to leave, since sitting here was doing him no good.

 

Molly, not knowing what else to do, excused herself to make tea. She already knew how John and Sherlock took theirs. On her way to the kitchen Mycroft called after her, “Milk, three sugars, please.” The woman next to him glanced up from her Blackberry and he amended, “One sugar. And semi-skim.”

 

Molly stopped in the doorway. “Gale? How do you take yours?”

 

“It's Judi, actually. No milk, two sugars, thank you,” she said, her attention again focused on her phone.

 

Molly blushed. “I'm sorry, I thought your name was Gale.”

 

“It was.”

 

“Okay,” Molly said and retreated to the kitchen to make tea.

 

Upon her return, she was handed a thick file folder.

 

“Inside this folder you'll find the details of your new identity. You'll be placed under witness protection indefinitely, until James Moriarty has been found and his crime syndicate disabled.” As Mycroft spoke he handed an identical folder to John and a slimmer one to Sherlock. “Dr. Watson will be placed with you as an added measure of protection.” He eyed Sherlock and added, "For all parties concerned."

 

Sherlock pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. “That is unacceptable, Mycroft! I need John with me.” The brothers glared at each other in some kind of silent exchange. Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his hair and stalked to the far corner of the room. Mycroft settled back in the armchair he had commandeered.

 

John looked between the two of them, then said in a tightly controlled voice, “And don't I get a say in this?” He blinked rapidly and licked his lips, waiting for a response.

 

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in return. “Unfortunately, John, you don't.” He broke eye contact with Sherlock and directly addressed John and Molly. “A car will arrive in the morning to take you to a drop point. You will be given a car and directions to your new residence, the location of which I can't disclose. I suggest you familiarize yourself with your respective biographies to avoid any complications. As of tomorrow morning, you will be Mary and Jared Morstan, formerly of London. The details and documentation are all in the folders. Now if you'll excuse me, I must be going. John and Molly, do take care. Sherlock, I'll contact you tomorrow with your information.”

 

“You can't do this! Put Molly in care alone!” Sherlock stalked up to and stood before his brother, one shoulder hunched downward. Molly recognized the gesture as one of submission. “If I'm to find Moriarty, I need John.”

 

Mycroft looked sympathetic for a split second before standing just the slightest bit taller. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's already been decided.” He swept out of the room, Judi in tow.

 

Molly stood forgotten in the centre of the room. Sherlock and John were speaking in urgent, hushed tones. Sherlock gesticulated wildly while John tried to placate him. Molly slipped upstairs without either of them noticing.

 

She studied the contents of the folder. Inside were photocopies of the fake documentation -- birth certificate, passport, marriage certificate, A-levels but nothing to indicate a university education, a last will and testament. She skimmed her new biography. Only child, parents deceased, spent her gap year working as an au pair, left university after one year, began writing Mills and Boone novels under a nom de plume, met Jared through an online dating site and dated for nine months before moving in together, married six months later on holiday in Spain. Decided to move to the country to start a family.

 

The argument downstairs had moved to the kitchen and became more heated. Snatches of conversation made their way up through the floor.

 

" _-really think I'm happy about this?-_ "

 

" _-jumped at the chance to get away-_ "

 

" _-safer without me-_ "

 

" _-being idiotic--- listen-_ "

 

" _-being bloody pigheaded-_ "

 

" _-Molly--take care-- herself-- Won't bother--- himself-_ "

 

" _-distraction--- won't be a liability-_ "

 

Then quiet, followed by a set of angry footfalls on the stairs. A door down the hall slammed.

 

She went back to her reading, picking up the sheet of A-4 with Jared's biography. One younger sister expatriated to Australia, parents also deceased, business degree from University of Manchester, successfully employed as a day trader who worked from home, was in a serious auto accident in September of 2009. The injuries from the car accident were described specifically, probably to correspond to wounds John had sustained previously.

 

It was a bit overwhelming. She might never see her family and friends again. She had to become a whole new person overnight. Sure, there had been times when she'd idly wished she was someone else, but she'd never meant it. In twelve hours, Molly Hooper would cease to exist. Mary Jane Morstan (nee Smith) would start a life that Molly had always thought she'd have. Be careful what you wish for, her mother had always said.

 

\----

 

The morning came too soon, grey and dreary. Molly hadn't seen John or Sherlock since the previous night. She showered and dressed in the clothes she'd arrived in. She made her way downstairs and fixed herself a cup of tea. She was slightly queasy with nerves, so she skipped eating anything. She installed herself in the lounge to wait. She was surprised to hear movement upstairs. She'd half expected Sherlock to have secreted John away after she'd fallen asleep.

 

John came downstairs and made himself tea and toast. He ate in the kitchen, but brought his tea into the lounge. They sat in an uncomfortable silence, carefully avoiding looking at each other. Promptly at eight, a car pulled up to the house.

 

John caught her gaze and held it. “Are you ready, then?” His tone was soft, but his posture radiated tension.

 

Molly replied honestly. “No, I don't think I am. Are you?”

 

“As I'll ever be.”

 

“Did Sherlock leave already?” There was no hoping he would come to say goodbye to her, but Molly asked anyway.

 

“No, he's still upstairs.” John's tone held a note Molly couldn't place.

 

Molly decided it best not to comment. She grabbed the folder containing her new identity and walked to the door. She waited for John, who glanced to the stairs on his way past. Molly took a deep breath and opened the door, exhaling as she stepped over the threshold. _Goodbye, Molly Hooper_ , she thought.

 

Molly looked back at the cottage as the car pulled away. She caught a glimpse of a pale face in one of the upstairs windows before the curtain fell back into place. She looked over to John ( _Jared, he's Jared now_ ), but he was resolutely staring straight ahead.

 

\----

 

The drive was long and Molly was sure the car was backtracking and taking the longest route possible. John and Molly used the time to quiz each other on important facts and dates. It was nearing half noon when the car finally pulled into a warehouse on the outskirts of Norwich. Upon exiting the car, they were greeted by two MI5 agents dressed as movers. They were each handed a clear plastic bag of personal effects (mobile phones, wallets, keys, watches, wedding rings) and a change of clothing. John began to strip almost immediately with no care for his audience. Molly blushed and turned her back to the men, quickly changing into the jeans and jumper they'd provided for her. Her old clothes were bundled into a bin liner along with John's and tossed back into the black car. They'd seen fit to give her a nice handbag, which she dumped the contents of the plastic bag into. She fished out the wedding ring and slipped it on her finger. The cool weight felt unfamiliar. She flexed her hands a few times and chanced a look at John.

 

One of the agents had given him a gun. He hefted it in his palm to test the weight, then stared down the sight. He released the clip, checked it, and slid it back into place. The seriousness of the situation came crashing down on Molly. She'd felt relatively safe when they'd been under guard. Now the only person to ensure her safety was a man she'd met all of twice (blog comments didn't count) before this whole thing started. She felt slightly dizzy. She tried to control her breathing, but ended up gagging. She bolted for the side of the van, leaning against it as she vomited a thin stream of bile. She rested her forehead against the side of the van, gulping air. Tears ran freely down her cheeks. John appeared by her side, apparently checking her over. She waved him off, pushing off the side of the van. She swiped away the tears and dug in her new purse for a packet of tissues. One of the agents handed her a bottle of water when she rejoined them. She rinsed and spat, then drank some of it. She found a roll of mints and crunched two.

 

They were handed a printout of directions and given instructions as to the route they would take. The moving van would follow Molly and John. They would stop for petrol at the junction of the A17 and A16. The car, a silver 2008 Ford Focus, was registered to Mary, so Molly decided she should be the one to drive. John offered no protest.

 

The drive was quiet. Molly fiddled with the radio and hummed along to the songs she knew. She was finding it difficult to think of John as Jared. “Is it okay if I call you Jay? I'm having a hard time thinking of you as Jared.”

 

“That's fine,” John replied, distracted.

 

They didn't talk any more for the rest of the ride.

 

\----

 

They pulled up in front of the small house in Sutton-on-Sea just after three in the afternoon. The house was at the end of a short lane. It was of a newer construction, less than thirty years old by the look of it, and bordered by fields. A line of trees and a low stone wall separated them from the next nearest residence, an old stone farmhouse with a thatched roof. Molly felt like she'd stepped into a postcard.

 

The house had already been furnished. John and Molly explored the interior while the agents-dressed-as-movers shuffled the neatly labelled boxes into their respective rooms. The downstairs area had an open floor plan, with the lounge, dining, and kitchen areas all separated solely by furniture placement. Just off the kitchen and behind the stairs was a small bathroom with a washer and dryer. The sparse furnishings were fairly modern and comfortable. The upstairs was divided into a master bedroom with a large en suite and two smaller guest rooms with a bathroom between them. The master bedroom contained a king bed and two dressers. There was a large, modern cupboard full of shelves and bars and drawers that ran the length of the wall of the adjoining bathroom. The bath itself was recently refurbished. It had a bathtub and a stand-up shower, along with a new toilet and a bidet. Molly noted the heated towel rack between the shower stall and the tub. She'd always wanted one of those. One of the guest rooms had been converted into an office space. The other was completely empty save for an old wardrobe and a wooden chair, which Molly found particularly creepy.

 

“So, one bed then. Makes sense, as we _are_ married,” Molly tittered.

 

“It's okay, I'll take the sofa,” John replied, then ruefully added, “Wouldn't be the first time.”

 

“We could flip a coin, or do scissors-paper-stone. Or make up a rota,” Molly offered, feeling guilty.

 

“It's fine. We'll just buy another bed in a few days.”

 

“Can we do that? I mean, we're not going to be here for that long, right? Won't they get, um, cross with us if we change things?”

 

“It's our house now, isn't it?”

 

“But not forever.”

 

“Mol-” John caught himself. “Mary, we might be here for a while. If Jim's connections run as deep as they do, it could be months. Years, even.”

 

Molly's heart sank. Years? Up until this point, she'd still harboured hope that this would all blow over soon. They'd find Jim and put him away, and then they could go back to their normal lives. She felt her sinuses burning. She turned her head away and nodded, sniffing.

 

“Do you need a minute? I'm sure there must be a kettle in one of the boxes downstairs, so I'll just go make some tea. Hopefully we _have_ tea.”

 

Molly choked on a watery laugh. John laid a comforting hand on her shoulder for a moment and set off down the stairs. She stared at the empty room and let herself cry, just a little. What was wrong with her? She hadn't cried this much since she'd been a teenager. She mentally checked the date. Her period was due the day before, but with the stress of the last week, she hadn't thought about it. It was hormones. Hormones and stress. Just PMT.

 

The doorbell rang. A spike of fear shot through her, but she tamped it down. It was silly, the agents were still here unloading boxes. She crept down the stairs to see who it was. John stood inside the lounge with an older couple, clearly husband and wife.

 

“-just popped round to welcome you to the neighbourhood,” the woman was saying, all friendly smiles and thick northern accent.

 

John glanced to the stairs and smiled. To his credit, it looked real. “Ah, there's the Mrs.” He beckoned her over.

 

Molly surreptitiously wiped her eyes and came to stand next to John, who immediately snaked an arm around her waist. She leaned into him, just enough to be believable.

 

“Mary, this is Bob and Carol. They live in the house down the lane.”

 

Molly smiled and greeted them politely.

 

The older woman, Carol, looked at her with concern. “Is everything all right dear? Did we come at a bad time?”

 

The lie came easily to Molly. She'd always been good at thinking on her feet. “Oh, it's silly, really. The movers lost some of our boxes, you see, and one of them was the box with our wedding album.” She felt John's hand give her waist a little squeeze, hopefully in approval.

 

“Oh, that's just terrible.” The woman glared daggers at one of the agents as he passed with another box.

 

“I suppose it could be worse. They said it might turn up, so we can only hope. I'd offer you a cuppa, but we haven't unpacked the kitchen things yet.”

 

“Oh, that's fine, love. We didn't want to be a bother, just thought we'd introduce ourselves. We didn't even know anyone had bought the place. Didn't think anyone would, after that dreadful business.” She waved her hand vaguely. “No estate agents around or anything.”

 

John jumped in. “Oh, we found it online. The price was right and we'd been looking to move out of the city. I'm really surprised someone hadn't snapped it right up. What, ehm, what dreadful business?” John blinked his eyes and licked his lips.

 

He did that a lot. _It makes him look like a lizard_ , Molly thought.

 

The couple looked uncomfortable. The man cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Bit of trouble a few years ago.”

 

“It was a murder-suicide dear, just awful. Didn't they tell you?” The woman replied, an unholy glee in her eyes.

 

“No, they hadn't mentioned it. That does explain the price, though. Where, exactly?”

 

“One of the bedrooms. Just awful. They were turning it into a nursery, you see, and everyone said the baby wasn't his-”

 

“That's enough, Carol. I'm sure they don't want to hear about it,” the husband cut in.

 

The woman visibly deflated. “Yes, well, that was years ago. The cleaners have been through, so I'm sure there's nothing left...”

 

Bob put his arm around his wife's shoulders, turning her slightly toward the door. “Well, it's been very nice to meet you. We're just down the road, if you need anything.” He guided her past the agents and out of the house.

 

Once they were gone, Molly slipped from John's arm. “A murder house. They put us in a murder house!” Her laugh may have been just the slightest bit hysterical. Really though, it was the set-up for a bad horror film. “Okay.” She took a deep breath and walked over to the kitchen area. She studied the boxes, then picked one at random and pried the tape up with a thumbnail.

 

John followed suit and they began to unpack the kitchen. Apparently no amount of strangeness could phase him.

 

It was odd. Molly had never lived with anyone before. She'd lived at home while attending university, and her foundation years, and through her run-through training. She gone right from her parents' to her own flat, where she'd been for the last five years. She'd never had to negotiate with someone over what drawer to use for cutlery, or which side of the sink to put the drying rack on.

 

After the third box, she remarked offhandedly, “It's sort of like Christmas, with all the boxes and paper and not knowing what's inside.”

 

“It reminds me of the care packages we'd get from churches. I'm half expecting to find toothpaste and Chapstick in one.”

 

“You were in the Army?”

 

“Yes. Afghanistan.”

 

Facts slotted into place. “So your injuries, then? The ones from your car accident? Were you shot, or was it shrapnel?”

 

John looked surprised. “Shot through the shoulder, shrapnel to the leg. How-?”

 

“I _am_ a pathologist.”

 

“Oh. I always assumed you were a lab tech.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

 

“No, it's fine. Most people think that, actually. The only one who ever got it right was- well, you know who. Jim just called me 'the morgue lady.'”

 

John was quiet for a moment. “So, why pathology, then?”

 

Molly sighed. She'd been through this a million times, with all sorts of people. Her mother couldn't understand why she'd not wanted to be a paediatrician, or an oncologist. After all, she'd become a doctor to help people, right? Her classmates had been the same. Molly was at the top of her class. She could have gone into any field. Her advisers had tried to push her toward neurology, since it was the last frontier of medical science and all that. Molly did love the science, the research, but the thought of years-long studies and grant proposals had just been too much.

 

“The immediate results, I suppose. Finding out the whys. It's kind of like a puzzle. And a body can't lie. It's like the last step, tying up everything. What, um, what's your speciality?”

 

“Lately I've been doing locum work. In the Army, I was a surgeon. Mostly osteopathy and reconstruction, before I was deployed. Then I was an A&E specialist.”

 

“I did a casualty rotation. I hated it. It was just too much, too fast, all the time. There was never any time to stop and think.”

 

“That's what I think I liked about it. You didn't _have_ time to think about the kids bleeding out under you, just how to fix them and move on to the next one.” John looked far away. “I don't usually talk about it.”

 

“I'm sorry. I mean, it's okay, you don't have to. I shouldn't have been so nosy.” She changed the subject, tittering, “Speaking of nosy, what about the new neighbours? I think the wife is a bit of a gossip.”

 

“Really? I didn't get that,” John deadpanned. “I think we'll have to be careful if they come 'round again. Quick thinking about the wedding photos, by the way.”

 

Molly smiled and flushed a little with pride. She'd never been a very good liar (quick thinker, yes, twisting the truth like everyone did on occasion, but no blatant falsehoods), as she'd never had need to do much lying. Little Miss Perfect, who never got into trouble. “Guess I'll be doing a lot more lying now,” she mumbled.

 

If John had heard her, he'd ignored it in favour of finding a spot for the toaster and plugging it in.

 

\----

 

The agents finished bringing in the last of the boxes. They handed John a laptop case and gave him instructions on the program that would run in the background to simulate his daily work activities, and warned them both against checking their old email addresses and blogs or looking up anyone they previously associated with. The men wished them luck and left.

 

They ordered take-away from a chippie closer to the seaside. John drove the car. Molly made note of the local landmarks from the passenger side, thinking she would do a proper shop tomorrow for all the groceries they would need. They ate and unpacked the boxes for the lounge. John hooked up the television and they left it on in the background as they worked. They laughed over the books and knick-knacks that had been chosen for them, while learning bits about each other's tastes. There really hadn't been much to unpack. Enough to make it plausible, but certainly not the contents of two lives. They'd finished with all of the downstairs boxes by 10:30.

 

John struggled up from his position on the floor and rolled his shoulder, then twisted and stretched his back. He went to the kitchen, favouring his right leg.

 

“Did you hurt yourself?” Molly asked, adding, “We might have some ice by now, if you pulled a muscle.”

 

“What? Oh, no. My leg still bothers me sometimes.” John dismissed, getting himself a glass of water from the tap.

 

“Oh, sorry. You can take the bed tonight.”

 

“No, it's fine. I've slept in much worse places.”

 

Molly deliberated a moment before saying, “You know, we could both sleep on the bed. I'm not trying to be forward or anything, but we are supposed to be married, and we're both adults, and it's large enough for two... I mean, I'm not going to molest you in the middle of the night.”

 

Molly felt a blush creeping down her neck. She shouldn't have said anything. John was still a stranger and now she was tripping all over herself. It was just the most logical solution. She wouldn't admit it, but she didn't want to sleep alone, downstairs, when there was a good possibility that there were people out to murder her.

 

John thought about it. “That's fine. I have to warn you, I've been told I steal the covers. And I do still have nightmares sometimes.”

 

“Me too. The covers bit. I can usually sleep through anything, so I'm not worried.”

 

It was odd for Molly to settle into bed with someone she was actually going to just sleep with. She'd never shared a bed without the sexual component before. Well, not as an adult. Still, she was tired and achy and it didn't really matter because there was a bed with high thread-count sheets and really nice pillows and a thick duvet filled with genuine down and not cheap polyfil. She didn't even care that she couldn't find the box with pyjamas in it.

 

\----

 

In the morning, Molly had to sprint to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before she was violently ill.

 

John poked his head through the open doorway. “Molly? Is everything alright?”

 

Molly leaned back. “I think I'm coming down with something. You feel okay, right?”

 

John nodded. “I'll just make some tea, then?”

 

“Thanks.” She flushed the toilet and cleaned herself up.

 

She felt a little warm and achy, but by the middle of the day, the nausea had left her. She ate a bowl of tinned soup for lunch and took a shower after she'd unpacked the clothing. Molly napped while John set up his office. They had more tinned soup for dinner and Molly turned in early.

 

The next morning was more of the same. John came into the room and sat on the ledge of the tub. “When you and Jim were together, did you use anything?”

 

“What? No! It's nothing. Not that. It's probably just a virus.”

 

“When was your last period?” His voice had that non-threatening clinical tone that Molly had never mastered.

 

“I'm two days overdue, but I can be late or early a week on either side. It's not what you're thinking. It can't be, the timing's too early.”

 

“But it's possible?”

 

Molly hung her head. “Yes.” She'd always been so responsible about everything, sex included. She'd been on birth control all through Uni and when she'd been in training, but stopped it because her love life had dried up to nothing once she'd taken the position at Bart's. Rotating shifts made dating near impossible. She'd had exactly two one-night stands and had used condoms. Then, with Jim, on her sofa... It had just been so long and the bedroom had been too far and he'd said he'd pull out but he slipped and then since he'd already done it once it didn't really matter the second time, and then they'd been arguing and she'd got busy with work and by then it had been too late for the morning-after pill... “Oh God,” she croaked and dry heaved into the toilet again.

 

“Right,” John nodded. “We're going to the shop anyway, we'll just pick up a pregnancy test while we're there.”

 

They went to the shop. Molly mindlessly tossed items in the basket, deliberately not thinking about the very real possibility of being pregnant by a criminal mastermind. She was a grown woman, smart, responsible. She'd had a _plan_ , and it didn't involve giving birth to the Antichrist.

 

John was waiting in the bedroom when she exited the en suite. They waited the three minutes in tense silence. They checked the test together.

 

“No. Shit. No!” Molly said, flipping over the box and reading the accuracy statistics.

 

John was already dialling his mobile as he moved out of the room. Molly trailed after him. He let the phone connect and tapped a code into the keypad. He closed the cover of the phone and pressed it to his lips, risking a glance at Molly.

 

Before he could speak, Molly blurted, “I want it out of me. I don't- he's a monster. I can't-” She took a breath. “Mifegyne and Misoprostol.”

 

John looked relieved. He pulled Molly into a comforting half hug. “We'll get it sorted then.”

 

The package arrived with the post the next day. Molly took the first dose of the medication and waited. She couldn't tell if it was working. She still felt mildly ill for most of the day. Just after midnight, she was woken by a sharp pain. She ran a bath and lowered herself into the water to ease the process. She knew it would increase the risk of infection, but the pain was comparable to the worst cramps she'd ever had and baths had always helped.

 

It was painful and bloody and embarrassing, but by morning, it was all over with. She'd let the water out of the tub and examined the larger pieces of tissue, then disposed of them in the toilet. She'd showered and returned to bed.

 

John had been a quiet presence through all of it, periodically checking on her. She'd been mortified by the situation, but he'd been nothing but professional. He'd even scrubbed out the tub afterwards. He'd made her tea and let her curl up with her head on his chest.

 

\----

 

A month passed with no word from either of the Holmes brothers, then two. They had a handler, but they were only to initiate contact if there was an emergency. They would only be contacted if there was a definite threat.

 

They stayed in the house, mostly. John's limp got bad enough for him to require a cane to walk and his hand would often tremble. They'd talk, but treated each other more or less like polite strangers most of the time. In public, they'd be Jared and Mary, that nice couple from London, homebodies and a bit eccentric, but a good sort. They continued sharing a bed for convenience sake and, though John would probably not admit it to Molly, shared comfort.

 

They would snap at each other when the forced proximity became too much, but it was an amiable relationship most of the time. They shared domestic duties. They ate take-away and watched telly. They played board games. Molly mowed the grass and tried her hand at gardening, something she'd never had any particular interest in, but it served to pass the time and got her out of the house.

 

Molly only felt safe when John was within shouting distance. Some days it was almost easy to forget why they were there, that it wasn't just some bizarre holiday. Or a social experiment. Most days, Molly was afraid to even drive to the shop, fearing that it would be the day Jim finally caught up with them.

 

Molly found herself growing to resent Sherlock for ever coming into her life. He'd been so devastatingly beautiful and she'd fallen under his spell and he hadn't _cared_. He'd put John in danger, made the man do his dirty work, and had never thanked him for any of it. John avoided him as a topic of conversation, mostly, but Molly had heard enough bits and pieces to know Sherlock manipulated John with no concern for the man. It made her angry, because John obviously held him in high regard. John didn't strike her as being a doormat, but she'd never seen herself as one either. Sherlock was just one of those people with _gravity_. Or like a tidal wave -- you couldn't help but get swept way. Molly was crap at metaphors.

 

\----------

  
It was nothing surprising to Molly when the relationship began changing. John was a good man, the sort most women would want for a husband. Kind, gentle, strong, dependable, intelligent. Good looking, though not strictly Molly's type. They'd pretended to be together in front of other people. No overt public displays, just the kinds of things you do around your partner. Small touches, in-jokes, that sort of thing. Molly found it thrilling. Lying was exciting and she was getting better at it. It felt like being a good girl gone bad when she did it. She was starting to become less vanilla.

 

One day in late June, Molly came inside from mowing the grass. She was dripping sweat, as it had been 25 degrees and she'd done both the back and front garden in one go. She was just going to grab a glass of lemonade and then go back out to bake in the sun. John was under the kitchen sink, muddling his way through fixing a leaking pipe. It was all so oddly and achingly domestic. Molly found herself watching the play of his arm muscles as he worked. Her eyes were drawn to the thin strip of pale belly showing where his shirt had ridden up. He'd put on a few pounds since they'd moved in, just enough to give him some padding over his stomach. It was kind of cute and Molly had to resist the urge to give it a gentle poke. John wiggled his shoulders out from underneath the cabinet and looked up at her. She noticed his eyes intentionally followed the line of her legs before settling on her face. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he asked her to pass him the spanner sitting on the worktop.

 

Molly had observed that John wasn't really very body conscious. He'd always kept covered, but it wasn't a big deal for him to come out of the bathroom in a towel to retrieve something from the bedroom before dressing, or walk around in his pants and a t-shirt now that the weather was warm. He was always respectful of Molly's privacy, though. Well, sometimes he would call through the unlocked bathroom door if she was in the bath to ask her a question, but he never walked in on her or anything. He'd had to give her a pelvic exam a few weeks after her induced miscarriage because it was something she couldn't do for herself. Like before, he'd been completely professional and it wasn't something either of them talked about.

 

John was also by nature a physically affectionate man. He had no qualms about giving Molly a friendly hug the few times she'd worked herself into a state over their whole situation. A gentle hand to her shoulder when reaching past her for something, a guiding hand to the small of her back while ushering her out the door for a trip to the market, unconscious gestures.

 

John was a natural protector as well. His bearing was one of quiet vigilance when they were in town. He was the one to answer the door when the postman brought them a package. Molly had the uncharitable notion that he was always a bit disappointed when no threat presented itself.

 

He never seemed outwardly upset about anything, but Molly was getting better at reading him. Small things gave him away, like the way sometimes he'd stare off in the distance and clench his left hand to stop the tremor -- Molly could just tell he'd been thinking of Sherlock. John was worried about him. Molly was too, but she'd begun to think of Sherlock differently since she'd been living with John. Oh, she would still shag him in heartbeat, but she was getting to know things about him that made her begin to dislike him as a person. John missed Sherlock more than he missed his sort-of girlfriend Sarah, if the way he talked was any indicator. On the rare occasions John did tell a Sherlock story (and they were always outrageous), it was with an amused kind of affection in his voice. This was hard on him too.

 

Sleeping with him had quickly gone from new and strange to habit. John tended to go to bed earlier, usually just before eleven. He'd wake up enough to mumble and turn over when Molly made it into bed between three and four. When the weather had still been chilly enough to warrant the duvet but not the heating, Molly would snuggle closer to John and he would throw an arm around her without fully waking. It hadn't been sexual in any way, just familiar. He'd always be up and about by the time Molly struggled out of bed around noon. Molly was a sound sleeper and his nocturnal movements had stopped registering after the first week.

 

In the heat of the summer, John started to quite obviously notice she did have a figure. She didn't try to flaunt it or anything. She wore a vest top and a pair of cut off jeans to work in the garden. The sun felt good on her skin. She'd not had much occasion to enjoy the outdoors, what with being born and raised in London and never having gone on holiday when the weather allowed for sunbathing. Molly caught him looking on more than one occasion. It wasn't an outright leer and he didn't indicate that he had any serious interest. Still, there was a new kind of tension starting to build between them. It was nice.

 

Until they got a call in the late evening on the 23rd of July. John had been on his way to the kitchen to get another mug of tea when his phone rang. They'd been watching The Hairy Bakers. John answered his phone and listened. Then he went pale as a ghost and stumbled into the wall as his leg gave out. Molly was up and off the sofa and by his side in seconds.

 

“John? What happened?”

 

He shook his head and listened intently to the voice on the phone. “I see. Thank you for telling me, then,” he said, then thumbed the screen to end the call.  
  
Molly felt the first stirring of panic. Had they been found? Was someone going to come crashing through the door any second? “John, please, what's going on?”  
  
He swallowed and wet his lips. He leaned heavily on the wall. When he spoke, his voice was soft and flat. “Sherlock's dead.”  
  
Molly's hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, God!” Sherlock was dead. She'd never get the chance to shag him now. It was an awful thought and she felt guilty for it immediately. John's best friend had just died.  
  
“Moriarty's still out there. There was a confrontation in Switzerland. Sherlock-” John's voice caught. “Sherlock didn't make it out.” He blinked back tears.  
  
Molly put her arms around John and leaned into him. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. She couldn't stop herself from pressing her face into his shoulder. She cried softly, feeling the tremors running through John's body.  
  
The dam broke. John clutched at her back, letting loose a soft sob. Molly didn't know how long they held each other and cried. Even after the tears were through, they didn't move.  
  
Molly wasn't sure what possessed her when she kissed John's neck. It was a small kiss, just a barely-there press of her lips to the space below the end of his jaw. John's body stiffened for a moment, but then he relaxed and his arms tightened around her. She kissed his jawbone next. He pulled his head back, enough to be able to slot his lips against hers, and then they were kissing in earnest. It wasn't like any kiss she'd ever had before. There was no hesitancy or gentle exploration, no overwhelming lust. Grief and longing spurred them on until it turned desperate, needy. Hands migrated to hair, faces, necks, any skin within reach.  
  
John broke the kiss first, resting his cheek against hers, panting softly in her ear. Molly ran her thumb over his carotid artery, feeling the way the blood thrummed through it. She could feel John, hot and hard pressing against her hip. She made a decision. She wanted him. It wouldn't take the pain away and would most certainly complicate everything, but it was some small comfort they could offer each other in the present. She kissed his jaw again softly and pulled away, tugging him around the corner to the stairs.  
  
Once inside the bedroom, Molly went directly to the en suite. The MI5 had seen fit to pack a box of condoms in with the other toiletries. At the time Molly had thought it odd, since they were supposed to be starting a family according to their biographies. She was glad for their foresight now. John watched her from the doorway, an inscrutable look on his face. He stood back enough to let her pass and caught her from behind, pressing his face to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. His hair had grown shaggy over the months, as he'd not been bothered to cut it, and it tickled her neck.  
  
She shivered and tossed the condoms on the bed. She turned in John's arms, his hands already skimming under her vest top. He pushed it up as far as it would go, and then she took over and pulled it off. His hands, warm and smooth and strong, bracketed her ribcage. He mouthed her collarbones while she undid the clasp of her bra. He pulled the straps down her arms, kissing her shoulder. She pushed him back enough to lift his t-shirt, which he unceremoniously yanked off. Then they were back to kissing, chest to chest. He nudged her backwards until her legs hit the edge of the mattress. She sat down and scooted back. Molly watched as John quickly undid the button and zip of his jeans and shoved them down along with his pants. She divested herself of her own bottoms as he stepped out of the pile of denim. He crawled onto the bed. Molly couldn't help but track the way his erection bobbed as he settled himself next to her.  
  
She rolled onto her side and pressed against him, slotting their legs together. They kissed while impatient hands ran over skin, John's coming to rest on her hip. He pushed her gently onto her back and sucked feverish kisses down to her breast, then mouthed at her nipple. He used his teeth, then chased it with a swirl of tongue. He pulled back and blew on it gently. Molly gasped, the first sound either of them had made since they'd been downstairs. John ran a hand over the outside of her thigh, catching behind the knee and hitching it up. His mouth trailed to her other breast while his hand skimmed over the top and inside of her thigh. She bucked as his fingertips skated over her pubic hair. He applied more pressure on the second pass and parted her labia. His middle finger brushed over her clit and she gasped again. She tugged on his hair until he got the message and surged up to her mouth. He continued to stroke her as she reached for the box of condoms.  
  
He pulled back and mouthed at her ear while she fumbled with opening the box and separating one from the strip. Molly tore open the packet and pushed him back. He took it from her fingers and she watched as he expertly rolled on the condom. He leaned down to kiss her again. She let her knees fall wider apart, caging John's hips with her thighs.  
  
Molly felt suddenly nervous as John used his hand to line himself up. Neither of them were thinking clearly and this could make however long they were stuck together in the house a living hell. Sex was something you could never go back from in a friendship. Still, the feeling of him right there, pushing himself in just past the head, then pulling back and sinking deeper... It was good. He withdrew his hand and balanced on his elbows. She shifted her hips to meet him on his third thrust, taking him in almost to the root. They took up a quick but steady pace. John shifted his weight and reached back to hitch her leg around his waist. He used the same hand to hold her hip down. His kisses grew more urgent as he moved faster.  
  
Molly made high little keening noises in the back of her throat. She could tell he was getting close. She wasn't, but she was enjoying the feel of it. She'd always liked it a bit rough, even if it never got her off. She hoped he didn't take it as a blow to his pride that she didn't have an orgasm, as almost every man she'd been with did. It was a bit physically uncomfortable afterwards, but she'd always relished the sense of closeness she got from sex. It wasn't always a fair trade, but it was enough to keep her doing it. It wasn't as though she couldn't get off with a partner, she just needed a different approach. Slower, with more grinding and less thrusting usually did the trick. Maybe there'd be some of that if they ever did it again.  
  
She held tighter, wrapping her other leg around his back and squeezing. She knew the effect it would have.  
  
John was polite enough to grunt, “'M gonna come,” urgently into her neck. It sent a little shock of pleasure through her to hear it and she couldn't help the low, breathy moan that it elicited. His breath caught as he tensed and he stilled after a few more sedate thrusts. He lay motionless for a time, moving only to capture her mouth again in a tired kiss that felt like a thank-you. He pulled out and stripped the condom, disposing of it in the bin on his side of the bed. He rolled onto his back.  
  
Molly snaked an arm around him apprehensively. Some men were cuddlers, but most she'd slept with hadn't been. John immediately pulled her close and she relaxed into him. He kissed her again and mumbled an apology into her temple.  
  
“It's okay,” she said, squeezing her arm tighter. They lay in silence, both unwilling to speak.  
  
After a few minutes, Molly levered herself up. “I have to pee,” she whispered. She padded into the bathroom. The cold of the tile floor seeped into her and made goosebumps rise on her skin. She took care of her personal needs and then drank some water. She filled the cup by the sink and returned to the bedroom. John was standing by the side of the bed in his shorts, just pulling his sleep shirt over his head. Molly felt an odd surge of disappointment that he wouldn't sleep naked. She rounded to her side of the bed and set the glass of water down. She put on her own pyjamas and slid into bed. John returned and lowered himself onto the mattress, grimacing because the wet spot had cooled and was mostly on his side. Molly snuggled down and pulled back toward the edge of the bed in what she hoped was an invitation for him to move closer to get more comfortable. When John didn't immediately respond, she traced a fingertip on the sheet next to him.  
  
She felt like she was being clingy. If it was just a one-off, then any neediness on her part was just going to drive him farther away. She hesitated for a moment and withdrew her hand. John must have seen something in her face; he looked almost surprised and rolled over to slot himself against her. It took a moment to arrange their arms and legs, but they ended up tangled tightly together. John dropped into a light doze soon after, leaving Molly half-awake with only her disjointed thoughts to keep her company.  
  
It had been the most emotionally intense sex she'd ever had. They'd both been raw and laid bare. It was also kind of solemn. She'd been used to soft giggles and smiles during sex, but there had been none of that, only quiet, fervent desperation. She wondered if what they'd just done was normal. She'd had people die before, but had never had the urge to go out and shag someone because of it. Then again, she'd never been in similar circumstances.  
  
She would mourn Sherlock. She'd had feelings for him, despite them being unrequited. On an intellectual level, she'd mourn the loss of his genius for the world at large. He'd helped so many people, saved lives, just by being clever. She'd mourn for John too, for losing someone so important to him. No one went through grief of a loved-one without losing part of themselves. They wouldn't even be allowed the closure of going to his funeral. She couldn't even read his obituary (provided there was one) online, for fear of their IP address being tracked.  
  
Who would be able to outwit Jim now? She wondered that if without Sherlock to draw Jim's focus she and John would be his next targets. They were the only living witnesses to his existence, at least on this side of the law. Would they be split up now? It would undoubtedly be more dangerous to keep them together. Better odds of having someone to testify if they were on opposite sides of the country, or maybe in another country entirely. She was confident John could protect himself. What would happen to her? She wouldn't be able to sleep if she had to go through it alone. She clung just the slightest bit tighter to John, whose soft breath was wuffling against her forehead.  
  
Her thoughts turned black as she recalled how Jim had so easily manipulated her. She hoped that when they caught him, they made him suffer. She wasn't normally like that, but he was a terrible man. She'd never believed a person could be inherently evil. Criminals were just victims of circumstance and poor choices. Not Jim Moriarty. He was rotten to the core. She wondered if he'd left a little of that rottenness inside her, since she'd never felt so bitter or angry at the world in her life.  
  
She fought the urge to wake John up just to allay her fears. He deserved to rest. Molly eventually fell asleep feeling very alone.  
  
\----  
  
Molly awoke to John sliding out from under her arm sometime in the early morning. He kissed her forehead and told her to go back to sleep. She did. She finally struggled out of bed around eleven. She'd slept for much longer than usual. She didn't bother with a dressing gown to go downstairs and make herself some tea.  
  
She shuffled to the kitchen. John called a soft good morning from the sofa and gave her a tired smile. When her tea was fixed, she made her way over to the sofa and sat in her usual spot. The telly was already on; she watched with little interest.  
  
After a few minutes, John shut the lid on his laptop and turned to her. “About last night,” he began.  
  
Not yet ready to hear the inevitable 'it was a mistake, we'll agree to never speak of it again,' Molly cut him off with, “It's okay. It doesn't have to change anything between us if you don't want it to.” Molly congratulated herself on how much she sounded like she believed it.  
  
John licked his lips. His eyes fluttered as he replied, “Do you want it to?”  
  
Molly knew this was a crucial moment. She could deny it and hope things would go back to the level of normal they'd found. Or she could confirm that she did want add a new component to their relationship. The first option would be the more sensible course of action, but she wanted the second option. She might not be in love with John, but she could be, one day. They might not even have that long to live anyway.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John's expression went from guarded to relaxed. “Good,” he said, nodding slightly to himself and smiling a little. “That's good.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
\----  
  
The week after Sherlock's death was a kind of hazy twilight period. Grief and worry warred for dominance as Molly's most prominent emotional state. She and John hadn't done more than kiss for a few minutes at a time, but spent hours just laying in bed wrapped around each other. Five days of living like zombies, with nothing to distract them from their thoughts.  
  
On the sixth day, they went into town out of necessity. They'd run out of regular food and had been subsisting on plain tea and the odd assortment of tinned food that had been in one of the boxes they'd started off with.  
  
John insisted on going to the barber first. He only got his hair trimmed, but it made a world of difference. It was stylishly shaggy now, and Molly thought it suited him. After his haircut, John went into the hardware store and bought a book on kitchen remodelling, along with paint chips of every colour they had. At the market, John added another box of condoms and two bottles of wine to the trolley.  
  
When the last of the groceries had been put away, John caught Molly around the waist and snogged her within an inch of her life. They made for the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. It felt different this time, more like the kind of sex Molly had enjoyed in her past relationships. John brought her off twice with his mouth and again while she rode him. They had a dinner of cold sandwiches and a full bottle of wine while clad only in their underwear. They had joyful, drunken sex again before passing out, then Molly woke John up for a third round.  
  
\----  
  
It was like they'd both become new people. John relaxed. Molly let go of her constant fear of death and became somewhat of a hedonist. It was like they'd come to an unspoken understanding -- if they were going to die, they would at least make the most of being alive.  
  
They spent the autumn redoing the kitchen. They ripped out cabinets and replaced them. They built a breakfast bar. Everything was repainted. They spent a good chunk of their savings on new appliances. Up until that point, they hadn't much need for the extra money. They paid their bills and bought food and put petrol in the car. They'd both bought a few books and DVDs online, but hadn't bothered with any of the other things people normally spent money on over the course of any given season. They'd had brand new wardrobes to start off with. Molly had never been big on jewellery or fancy under-things. John wasn't a gadget guy. So they dumped all the money into the house, since they spent all their time there and it gave them something to do.  
  
Molly went on birth control and they used the last of the condoms in October.  
  
They didn't talk about Sherlock or Jim. They didn't talk about anyone they used to know. They didn't talk about their old lives.  
  
In November, Molly tried her hand at actually writing a romance novel. It was rubbish. John read books about economics and trading and stock exchanges and all kinds of boring financial things. They forced themselves into becoming Mary and Jay Morstan.  
  
In December, they started working in the lounge. They bought new furniture and put in more shelving. Molly spilled paint on the carpeting and ripped it up. They didn't celebrate Christmas.  
  
They spent the rest of the winter poring over gardening magazines and websites. In the spring, they started on the outside of the house. They got a card in April from an estate agent that didn't exist, congratulating them on a year spent in their new home. Molly freaked out until John called their emergency contact. The woman on the other end explained it was just part of the cover. They didn't speak about it after.  
  
They worked through the summer putting in flower beds and brick walkways and even planted a pear tree. John spent all of July 23rd in the upstairs office. Molly didn't say a word to him about it, but they had really amazing sex that night.  
  
Molly went through a six-month period of trying out hobbies. She tried knitting, crocheting, rug hooking, embroidery, macramé, beading, baking, painting, candle-making, and scrap-booking. She gave it up as a bad job and went back to redecorating. John started writing his own novel, but wouldn't let her read it. She suspected it was because the main character was a thinly veiled parody of Sherlock (yes, she'd peeked just once and felt guilty about it for weeks) and he didn't want to admit he still thought about their old lives so much. John's leg was always terrible after he'd spent the day writing and Molly would put her knowledge of anatomy and physiology to good use by massaging it to get the muscle to loosen up. Then she would put that knowledge to better use and distract him from the pain.  
  
It was a wonderful lie that they lived. They were both a bit mad, but they hid it well, even from each other. They'd fallen into comfortable routines and some days Molly even forgot that she wasn't always this person. Mary Morstan was outspoken and witty and uninhibited. Jay Morstan was more like John, in that he was still very private and kept certain things to himself, but all together more relaxed and easygoing. Surprisingly, Jay was quite stylish. He wore his hair a certain way and dressed with more flair than Molly expected John ever had in his life. They even had a row over the amount of money Jay spent on clothing, until they both realized how completely domestic and silly it was. They dissolved into peals of laughter and Jay bought her a ₤600 dress online. She wore it exactly once, when they went on a date to the bistro in town.  
  
The whole house had been completely redone by the summer of their second year. They left the master bedroom and office pretty much as they had been when they'd moved in, since they'd been modernized before the previous owners had died. The only room left in the house was the 'murder room.' They'd been using it for storage. They weren't sure what to do with it, so they turned it into a very bland guest room.  
  
By the beginning of the third year, Molly again began to find herself at loose ends. The house was completely finished, top to bottom. They hadn't heard a word from anyone about Jim Moriarty since the night Mycroft Holmes had personally phoned with the news of Sherlock's death.  
  
John spent more and more time writing. They still did things together, like the shopping and watching telly, but their common goal had been accomplished. She supposed they could start over with redecorating, but she liked everything just as it was.  
  
Molly found herself thinking about her old life more and more. Her plan. She'd wanted at least one child by now. In theory, she could have had one. She sometimes daydreamed about what having a baby would be like.  
  
She brought the idea up to John over pasta one night in May. The discussion went on for weeks. Yes, it would be supremely irresponsible to bring a child into their lives, since they were in witness protection for a reason. But Jim hadn't made a move on them in the two-plus years since they'd been in the house. Could they afford it? Of course they could, Jay had a decent income and Mary could just write another book. Molly had always wanted children, John had always thought he'd have them eventually, Mary and Jay moved here to start a family, what was the problem?  
  
On the first of June, Mary Morstan flushed the rest of her birth control pills down the toilet.  
  
Never once in three years had either of them mentioned love. That was okay though. They had a partnership that worked, and they were friends, and the sex was still good. It was more than could be said for a lot of people.

 

\------

  
Molly hung out the back door, watching the storm. It was an early evening late in August and the rain poured down in buckets. Lightning flashed over the fields. She felt small droplets of water hit her cheeks as the wind gusted them off the overhang. It was lovely. John wasn't as impressed by it all. He sat on the sofa with his laptop.  
  
The doorbell rang. They hadn't been expecting anyone, but Bob and Carol came 'round at the oddest times and for the oddest reasons. Molly didn't bother to look around the walled-off stairway, the storm was more interesting.  
  
She'd had another disappointment this morning when only one blue line showed up on the test. John had consoled her, telling her it had only been two months and it could take a while. She knew that, but it didn't ease the sting.  
  
John hadn't called for her, so it wasn't the neighbours dropping in. "Jay," she shouted over her shoulder, "Who was at the door?" She waited for a response, and when none came, she poked her head around the wall.  
  
John lay in a crumpled heap in front of the open door, a scruffy blonde man crouched over him. Molly froze in terror. So this was it. Today was the day. They'd let their guard slip and now they were both going to die.  
  
The man glanced up. "Molly, get a glass of water. John's fainted."  
  
That voice. No. Couldn't be. Sopping wet bleach-blonde hair, the beginnings of a scraggly ginger beard, dirty jeans and worn army jacket -- all wrong. Not dark hair and smooth jaw and sharply tailored suit. The eyes though, and the _voice_ , it had to be.  
  
A rush of longing washed through her, leaving a nervous tingle in its wake. "Sherlock?" Molly squeaked. Just like a mouse.  
  
John shifted on the floor and Sherlock leaned back to allow him to sit up. John righted himself and stared.  
  
"So it really is you?" He reached out and ran his hand over Sherlock's cheek.  
  
Sherlock tilted his head into John's hand ever so slightly and quirked a smile. "It really is me, John."  
  
Molly felt a knot of jealousy form in her stomach, but which of them she was jealous of, she wasn't sure. She mentally shook herself and walked over to the kitchen to make tea.  
  
Sherlock helped John up and they stood there, just looking, for a few moments. John was the first to speak. "You look like a drowned rat."  
  
"I had to walk from the High Street. There aren't any bloody cabs in this town."  
  
John chuckled and led him over to the breakfast bar, where he guided him to sit. His face turned sombre. "Is it done, then?"  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
An odd sort of silence fell. Sherlock seemed content to study everything around him. John studied Sherlock. Molly studied John, not liking the feeling she was getting. It felt like there was an unwelcome stranger in her house, which was silly. It was _Sherlock_. Beautiful, brilliant, cruel Sherlock.  
  
Molly fixed the tea and excused herself upstairs to get a change of clothes for Sherlock. John's clothing would be a little short, but it would have to do. She piled the pyjama bottoms and t-shirt in the disused guest bath, laying out a towel and flannel. She retrieved one of John's spare razors and his can of shaving foam and unwrapped a bar of soap for the shower. She didn't have a spare toothbrush, so Sherlock would just have to go without.  
  
She returned downstairs to hear Sherlock finishing what must have been a truncated explanation of how he'd ended up here.  
  
"-Rotterdam, and then the ferry to Hull. Then I hitch-hiked."  
  
John was laughing and shaking his head, his tea untouched in front of him. Molly came to stand by his side, snaking an arm around his waist. John's arm went automatically around her shoulder. Molly noticed the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed just the slightest bit.  
  
"I put some things in the guest bathroom, if you'd like to freshen up. I could make you some dinner, if you like." Molly was proud of how clear and confident her voice sounded. Sherlock was still devastatingly handsome, even looking like a tramp, but three years of living as married had broken the hold he'd had on her. Mostly.  
  
Sherlock looked faintly surprised before replying civilly, "Thank you, Molly, something warm would be most welcome. If you'll excuse me, I can show myself to the bath."  
  
He stood up and left. When his footsteps indicated he'd made it to the bathroom without poking his head into the other rooms, John turned to her with the most radiant smile she'd ever seen on him.  
  
"Can you believe he's spent the last six months living in Norway as a drifter?" John shook his head, still smiling, and pulled Molly into a kiss. He was so happy. It broke her heart.  
  
They broke apart quickly when Sherlock came barrelling back down the stairs, barefoot and clad only in jeans and a manky vest top. He didn't say a word, just grabbed the rucksack sitting by the front door and bounded back up the stairs. John's slightly uncomfortable look said enough for the both of them. Molly stepped away to rummage in the cupboards to find something easy to make.  
  
Sherlock appeared again a short while later, clean-shaven and his hair (still disconcertingly blonde) damp from the shower. He looked positively emaciated. The pyjama bottoms were still ridiculously short, even though they rode lower on his hips than could be considered decent. Once, the sight of his lean belly would have sent Molly into an apoplectic fit and, though she still appreciated the eyeful, she found she preferred the little bit of squish on John.  
  
Molly set a plate of spag bol in front of Sherlock. He was irritatingly polite when he thanked her. He chattered away about this or that henchman that he brought down, Molly couldn't be bothered to care. She knew she should, that this was all brilliant and amazing and they could go back to being Molly Hooper, pathologist and slightly neurotic perfectionist, and John Watson, GP and reserved gentleman. The man who'd terrorized London was dead, good triumphed over evil. It didn't feel like any kind of victory, though.  
  
Molly stood by the kitchen sink and fingered her wedding ring absently. She'd got so good at lying, especially to herself. Somewhere along the way, this had all stopped being a surreal fantasy. She was going to lose the house they'd put hours of blood, sweat, and tears into. She was going to lose her pear tree. There was a very real possibility of her losing John. She might not have said it, but she did love him. Maybe not madly and passionately, but he was her _husband_. Not her husband. Mary's husband. _Jay_ was Mary's husband. Still, they'd had a life, _their_ life, _together_.  
  
She thought bitterly that it was a good thing she hadn't got pregnant. It had been a stupid idea anyway. Stupid, stupid, stupid. None of it was real and none of it was fair. Molly couldn't help herself any longer. She stifled a sob and excused herself quickly, fleeing up the stairs and to the sanctity of their bed. It was stupid and sentimental, but she curled up on John's side and buried her face in his pillow.  
  
A few minutes later, John was there, easing down next to her and stroking her hair. He must have deliberated before following her, giving Sherlock an explanation. God, she hoped John hadn't said anything about them trying for a baby. She didn't need any of her personal failures paraded out in front of that man. She sobbed harder.  
  
She shouldn't care that John didn't come right after her. He let her cry alone sometimes, just like she let him alone when he was in a mood. But she'd wanted to be chased and it was stupid and of course John wouldn't really know any of that, would he? Had he ever been paying attention to anything at all? Molly curled herself tighter into the pillow.  
  
But John did know. He pulled her up, half into his lap, and guided her head to his chest. He rocked her back and forth and she realized he was shaking a little too. He bent his head and pressed his lips to her hair and she felt a hot tear slide along her temple.  
  
Long minutes passed before John finally said something. "Nothing has to change between us." His thumb stroked her ear.  
  
Unable to verbalize the thin strand of relief that wove through the grief and anxiety, she just nodded into his chest. "Okay," she croaked.  
  
They clung to each other for a short while longer. Molly got up and kissed John gently before moving into the en suite. She splashed cold water on her blotchy face and took a deep breath. John was still sitting on the bed when she came back out. She pressed her cool lips to his forehead. "I'll just go make up the guest room. At least we're finally using it." They shared a wry smile.  
  
Molly pulled the linens from the cupboard and quickly made the bed. She double-checked for dust and smoothed the duvet one final time, fretting over how plain the room looked. Then she felt silly. It wasn't like she was playing host to the bloody Queen.  
  
When she returned to the lounge, she found John sitting on the sofa. The telly was on, but he wasn't watching. Sherlock was studying the contents of their bookshelves. Molly wondered what he saw in the contents of their house. Best not to think about it, she'd already had enough carefully constructed illusions shattered for one night. She sat next to John and twined her hand with his.  
  
There was a palpable tension in the room. Sherlock spoke first, his demeanour oddly formal. "I think I'll turn in for the night, if you don't mind. Mycroft is having a car sent in the morning. Goodnight, John." He hesitated for a split second before adding, "Molly."  
  
The atmosphere changed as soon as Sherlock took his leave. The tension was replaced with melancholy. Finally, Molly screwed up the courage to ask, "So what now?"  
  
"Go back to London, I suppose. They'll find us jobs, or knowing Mycroft, he'll have some 'unfortunate circumstance' befall whatever poor sods replaced us at our old ones. We'll find a flat we can afford and move in." He shrugged.  
  
"I'm going to miss this," Molly said.  
  
John didn't say 'I won't,' but Molly read it in his face. "You'll get used to London again."  
  
"I will. You know what I want to do first?"  
  
"What?" John turned his body and leaned back against the arm of her sofa, pulling her back with him. She settled in with her back to his chest and his arms around her. She twined their fingers once again and toyed with his ring.  
  
"I want Middle Eastern food. Hummus and pita bread."  
  
John laughed and she felt the comforting vibration roll through her. "Well _I_ want a proper Chinese."  
  
"I want to ride a lift. I've always liked that feeling when they start and stop."  
  
"I want to walk to the shop and back and be home within the hour."  
  
They went on like that for some time. By the time they went upstairs, Molly was almost looking forward to returning to London.  
  
They got ready for bed and Molly snuggled close to John. She ran her fingertips along his thigh, which had become her signal for let's have slow, comfortable sex.  
  
John just rubbed her shoulder and said, "I'm knackered. Maybe in the morning." He kissed her apologetically and resettled his head against the pillow.  
  
It wasn't like he'd never denied her before. There had been times when one of them would want it and the other didn't. It was okay. It really should be okay. But Molly couldn't help but feel that it was because Sherlock was just down the hall. Sure, it was a little weird, but a mean little part of her wanted him to know. He'd undoubtedly figured out every detail of their relationship within minutes of being inside the house. Having John while Sherlock was there would be a kind of petty insult. See what I have, what you could have had. Then again, knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't even care.  
  
\----  
  
The car arrived for Sherlock at ten-thirty. John had been up and out of bed at six. He'd washed Sherlock's clothes and cooked them breakfast before Molly had stumbled downstairs at nine. She'd forgone a dressing gown in defiance, even though the morning was cool enough to warrant one. She'd made herself coffee and perched on her stool at the breakfast bar. John had called a good morning and went right back to talking animatedly to Sherlock.  
  
There was really no goodbye, so to speak. The car pulled up and Sherlock was across the room in seconds, rucksack in hand. He'd given John one last look before pulling the front door closed behind him.  
  
John seemed in a bit of a mood, so Molly gave him a wide berth for the rest of the morning. They were contacted by Mycroft's people in the afternoon and briefed on how the next few weeks would go.  
  
\----  
  
Molly hefted the weight of her mobile in her hand, working up the nerve to make a phone call. She'd checked online to make sure her parents were still living. They were, as far as she could tell. She hadn't found any obituaries or funeral notices and their phone number was still listed as being the same one she'd grown up with.  
  
John hadn't called his sister, but he had emailed her with his phone number. She'd phoned minutes later and immediately began screaming that it was a sick joke and her brother was dead, until John had said, "Harry, it's me. It's really me. I'm alive." His voice had broken on the last word. Molly had given his shoulder a comforting squeeze and gone outside. She'd walked through her garden, inspecting for damage from the heavy rain the night before. John had come out and wrapped his arms around her, slipping her mobile into her hand.  
  
That was an hour ago. John had gone back in the house, presumably to give her some privacy. Finally, she took a deep breath and dialled.  
  
Her mother answered. "Hello?"  
  
Molly couldn't speak.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Another second of silence, then Molly's voice came out in an urgent rush. "Mum? Mum, it's me. It's Molly."  
  
The line was quiet.  
  
"Mum? Mum, please say something!" She felt frantic, needing to hear her mother. Needing to hear that she hadn't been forgotten.  
  
"Molly?" was her mother's shaky reply.  
  
"It's me, Mum, I'm here. And I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..." She couldn't give any details, but she told her mother what she could. She told her mother about the house and what they'd done with it, but kept her answers vague regarding John. It didn't feel right to talk about it.  
  
The conversation went on for some time. She spoke to her father for a few minutes, but he'd never been much of a talker, so the phone was passed back to her mother. Finally, they both seemed to tire of talking. Molly promised that as soon as she was back in London, she'd go and visit.  
  
She went back inside the house and found John bringing boxes up from the basement. Most of the original moving boxes had been used up in their various remodelling projects, but others had taken their place. John had been the one to hoard them, extolling on the usefulness of a sturdy cardboard box, and Molly had protested every time a new one had joined the pile.  
  
John gave her a triumphant smile from the top of the stairs, his arms laden with cardboard. It was a 'see, I told you so,' self-congratulatory smile. It had never been a malicious facial expression, she'd always found it endearing. Molly burst into tears.  
  
Then there was cuddling and soothing and slow comfort sex in the bedroom, and it was all very sweet and reassuring.  
  
They packed everything they wanted to keep. Some of the things that they didn't, like most of the books, would still go with them anyway and they would sell them online. John became irrationally worried about money in the days it took them to get everything boxed; apparently he'd come home from the Army riddled with debt (for what, he didn't say), and he didn't want to be in that situation again. In their time together, Mary had been the one to do the household budget and Jay had been the one to spend. But they weren't those people any more.  
  
The flat was partially furnished, so they would leave most of their furnishings behind. It would help with the resale value of the house, even if they wouldn't see the money for it. Still, it was a point of pride for Molly, that they'd taken something mediocre and made it into a dream home.  
  
Their last night in the house was overshadowed by a sense of loss, at least to Molly. John seemed more excited every day and his limp was barely noticeable by the end of the week it had taken them to pack. He was more enthusiastic in bed than he had been since the day she flushed her birth control pills. Molly wished she could enjoy it more.  
  
The movers (real, _professional_ movers) arrived early and packed the lorry. Molly and John would follow in Mary's car, which would become Molly's car. Her parents had sold her old car because they'd had nowhere to park it and couldn't afford to pay for long-term storage.  
  
She took one last look around the house, double-checking that she'd not missed anything. John waited for her at the door. Before she stepped out, Mary pulled Jay into one last, desperate goodbye kiss. After he'd locked the door, Molly stole a quick kiss from John, then slipped the ring off her finger and pocketed it.  
  
\----  
  
John drove the whole way to London. The movers had already begun unloading by the time they pulled up to the red brick block of flats on North Gower St.  
  
Molly visited her parents on the second day back in London while John worked on getting the lounge in order. She begged off after only an hour of being in her parents' house in Croydon. It was lovely to see them, but awkward and emotional and Molly'd had enough strong emotion to last her for a good long while.  
  
The first text from Sherlock came that night, while they were getting ready for bed. John chuckled after reading it and set the phone on the bedside table. Two more texts followed in rapid succession. John typed a message and sent it, then got into bed and settled on his back. Just as Molly was drifting off, another text came in. John sighed in consternation and picked up the phone. He dialled Sherlock and then swore when it went to voice mail. He got out of bed and began pulling on clothes.  
  
Molly sat up. "What's wrong?"  
  
"It's probably nothing. Just go back to sleep." He bent down and kissed her forehead. She listened to him leave. She hoped he wasn't putting himself in danger. He'd told her some of the things he'd got up to with Sherlock and none of them had been very pedestrian.  
  
He didn't come home until mid-morning. She'd expected him to be exhausted, but the second he was through the door, he pinned her up against the wall and snogged her. He pulled her legs around his waist and carried her to the bedroom. He'd never done anything like it before. He hadn't been able to because of his leg. He fucked her then, fast and hard and deep, and finished fairly quickly. He used his mouth on her just as brutally. He didn't just go down on her, he went to war. It was brilliant.  
  
Afterwards, Molly asked him what had brought that on. He launched into a tale of a suspected adulterer and a chase that culminated in Covent Garden Station. Molly found it worrisome, but didn't say anything. John was happy.  
  
\----  
  
Mycroft had set John up with a private practice just off Pall Mall. It was a _very_ private practice. John couldn't tell her exactly who he was treating and for what, but she could read between the lines well enough.  
  
Molly was reinstated at Bart's and returned to working alternating shifts. The first time she passed the lift by the back ambulance bay, she had a moment of vertigo, but she shook it off and made a point of taking that lift every day, even though it was out of her way. Sherlock came in for his various experiments, but never tried charming her. She usually just waved him away and continued on with whatever she was doing. While she was there, he pretty much had the run of the morgue. She didn't fear for her job, so she just stopped caring if he ran roughshod over procedure. The old Molly would have protested. Then again, the old Molly would have been thrilled just to be near the man. She could easily ban Sherlock, but that would just be petty. And it would make John's life that much harder. So she just ignored it.  
  
Between Molly's odd hours and John's office hours and being once again at Sherlock's beck and call, their relationship dried up. They shared a meal together twice a week if they were lucky. They slept in the same bed, but at different times. They'd once again become polite strangers.  
  
Molly still couldn't help the worry that became a constant itch in the back of her mind. She'd seen the various cuts and bruises John sometimes came home with. One day he was going to get seriously injured or worse and there was nothing she could do about it.  
  
It all came to a head in the middle of February. Molly was in for the evening, as she worked the early shift this week. She heard the key in the lock as John let himself in, soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably. Sherlock trailed in behind him, looking contrite. John didn't say anything, just made directly for the bathroom.  
  
Molly stayed in the lounge. John never liked to be babied and had become aloof and cold when she'd tried to treat his various injuries in the past. She eyed Sherlock, who had the grace to at least look uncomfortable while he hovered just inside the door. In all the months she and John lived there, Sherlock had never once been inside. She waited until she heard the shower running to speak.  
  
"Are you going to tell me what you got him into this time?" she demanded.  
  
"I didn't get him into anything. He was the one who tackled the thief into Camden Lock," he dismissed.  
  
"In the middle of winter!"  
  
"He's fine. It was less than twenty minutes ago and the cab was warm."  
  
Molly goggled. Sherlock Holmes had left her speechless innumerable times, but never from stupidity. "He could have drowned!"

At his impassive look, something inside her well and truly snapped. "Would you have jumped in after him, to save him if you had to? Or would you just watch how long it took and make notes on it back in your flat? Maybe come to the morgue later to get a piece of him to experiment on?" Molly advanced on him. "You don't care about him at all! You think-"  
  
Sherlock cut her off, his voice dropping low and dangerous. "Don't presume you could ever know what I think. Your tiny mind couldn't comprehend it," he sneered.  
  
She was standing almost chest-to-chest with him. He loomed over her. Molly would have been scared if she didn't want to rip his throat out.  
  
"What the _hell_ is going on out here?"  
  
John stood in the doorway to the lounge in just a towel, dripping on the carpet. Sherlock took a startled step back from Molly. Neither of them had even noticed the shower stopped.  
  
Molly wheeled to face him. "Do you even care that one day he's going to get you killed?"  
  
John heaved a sigh. "It wasn't like that. The man was the only still alive who knew where the diamonds were hidden, I couldn't just let him get away. I'm fine, Molly. It's fine."  
  
"It's not fine! None of it is fine!" She paced away from Sherlock and crumpled in on herself. Silence fell.  
  
Sherlock's phone rang and he answered it. He listened for a moment, and then rung off with, "Right. We'll be there within the hour." He turned to John. "Lestrade. The man in custody says he was to meet the buyer at midnight under Blackfriars Bridge. Get dressed."  
  
John looked between Molly and Sherlock for a moment and padded back down the hall. Molly followed him to their bedroom, where he was already pulling clothes out of the wardrobe.  
  
"You can't be serious, John! You just fell in the bloody canal! Now you're going to stand under a bridge in zero degree weather and wait for some criminal?"  
  
"Molly, if we can get the buyer, we can make the case for a murder. We can give a family some closure," he said, stepping into his pants.  
  
"I can't live like this any more."  
  
"Molly-"  
  
Her voice was even, confident when she said, "No, John. If you go with him tonight and put yourself at risk, you can go back to Baker Street when the case is over."  
  
John stopped buttoning his jeans and studied her. She stared openly, waiting for his next move. When he picked his vest off the bed, she'd known she'd lost.  
  
"I'll have your things sent." She returned to the lounge and grabbed her bag.  
  
She paused by the door and addressed Sherlock. "I hope you'll be very happy together," she said, her voice pure ice. She stared him down for a moment longer, noting the hint of victory that played in his otherwise impassive eyes. She slammed the door behind her.  
  
She set off walking without any destination mind. As the fat tears rolled down her cheeks, she found herself stopping outside an estate agent's office. She lingered for a moment at the dark window, then continued down the street. Molly returned to the empty flat hours later chilled to the bone. She immediately began packing John's things. She phoned off sick to work, because she was. Not physically ill, but more heartsick than she'd ever remembered being in her life.  
  
John didn't go back to Baker Street that night. He let himself in the flat as dawn was breaking. He'd put his keys on the side table and taken his shoes and coat off before noticing her. When he did, he looked surprised to see her sitting there in the middle of the lounge, surrounded by piles of books and open boxes.  
  
Molly gestured to a stack of DVDs without turning her head to look at him. "I couldn't remember which of these were yours." She choked back a sob.  
  
John picked his through the debris, shoving a box aside to sit down next to her. He debated for a moment, then finally put his arm around her, pulling her close. "I don't," he started, then heaved a sigh. "I don't want this to be over."  
  
Molly felt her resolve break into a million tiny pieces. She clamped down on another sob before it could escape. "I don't either," she said miserably. "I know he needs you, and the people you help need you, but I do too."  
  
"I know," he said, dropping a kiss to her hair.  
  
She wanted him to tell her he loved her right then. Even if she knew it would be at best a half-truth, she desperately wanted to hear it.  
  
"I won't ask you to stop. I know you won't. I just... I don't know what I'll do when the day comes that it's not you at the door, but one of the DIs from the Yard." She realized dimly that this is what it was like to be a soldier's wife. Only John wasn't in the Army any more, or her husband.  
  
"I'm right here, Molly. It's not as dangerous as you make it out to be. Most of the time I'm just following Sherlock around and nodding in all the right places when he talks."  
  
"He's a ponce," she said childishly.  
  
John chuckled. "He is, sometimes. He's learning, though."  
  
Molly felt emboldened by John's easy agreement. "I think he wants you all to himself."  
  
John stiffened just the slightest bit. "Maybe," he said carefully. "I don't think he's ever had to share anything in his life."  
  
Molly snorted, but didn't say anything else. They sat for long minutes until Molly's curiosity overwhelmed her. "Don't you ever miss how it used to be?"  
  
John was quiet. After what seemed like ages, he answered her. "Some parts. I don't miss waking up every morning wondering if Moriarty was going to find us. I don't miss knowing my best friend was dead and I hadn't been there to stop it. I don't miss my leg hurting so much I could barely make it up the stairs."  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so unhappy." Molly felt small. She'd been able to forget about the rest of the world most days, but John hadn't. What's worse, she'd dismissed his moods as just a bad day, or the weather, or any number of silly reasons. She should have known John was deeper than that and he'd been really hurting.  
  
"It wasn't all bad. I had you."  
  
"You still have me."  
  
"So there's really nothing for me to miss, is there?" He teased.  
  
Molly smiled and snuggled into his neck. Then she turned her head and stifled a yawn against his shoulder.  
  
"Don't do that," John yawned.  
  
They shared a laugh and John helped pull her to her feet. They stood in a comforting embrace in the middle of the lounge, then Molly followed John to bed.  
  
\----  
  
It was okay again, for a while. Molly worked things out with her supervisor and got herself switched to nights exclusively. It meant working one less day a week, but it didn't impact their finances terribly. John cut down on the number of cases he followed Sherlock on and would text Molly periodically while he was out to assure her of his safety. They spent more time together. The distance that had opened up between them didn't grow, but it didn't close up completely either. They were trying, though.  
  
They began putting money aside for a proper holiday. Molly wanted to go somewhere warm, with a beach. Spain, maybe. She'd always gone to museums and done cultural things on holiday; she'd never just baked in the sun and read paperbacks. It hadn't held any appeal at the time. Now it did. John didn't particularly care where they went.  
  
Molly took to browsing real estate sites, looking at little coastal cottages that could use a bit of work. Sometimes she would look at job listings too. It was an idle fantasy, just something to pass the time on her lunch break. John would never leave London for good, but she could daydream about it.  
  
Then Sherlock took a case in Dartmoor and John went with him. Molly didn't want him to go, but she didn't protest. John needed it. They had sex the night before he left. It felt desperate, like John was searching her for something. His kiss at the door before he left held a strange kind of resolve.  
  
John was gone a week. He came back tired, but looking content. He told her about the case over dinner. Molly had some time before she had to leave for work, so she pressed close and kissed him. He begged off saying he was tired and went in to bed. Something bothered Molly about it, but she let it go.  
  
She went in to work early and ran into Sherlock in the morgue. He smiled at her. She smiled back, a reflex. Then she noticed the bruises on his wrists. One glance told her they were made by hands, not ligature marks. "Got into a bit of trouble, did you?" She asked.  
  
"You could say that," he hedged, going back to peeling the skin off the back of a cadaver's knee.  
  
She hadn't looked John over, but he'd seemed fine when she left. "If I ask you if John got hurt, would you tell me the truth?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Did John get hurt?"  
  
He didn't hesitate. "No."  
  
"Good. See that it stays that way." She went about her work.  
  
She got a text message later from John telling her Sherlock had another case already, he might not be there when she got home, not to wait up. She didn't.  
  
John didn't make it home until eight that night. Molly was in the kitchen packing her lunch. She'd taken on an extra shift, since Dr. Lee had sprained his ankle while rough-housing with his two sons the day before. John came in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then continued on to the bedroom.  
  
John smelled like Sherlock. Not just the man's cologne, but _Sherlock_. Everything slotted into place. Molly was calm in her realization, calmer than she thought she should be. Little things she'd brushed aside, all the way back to the beginning, came flooding back to her in a rush. The way John had refused to look back at the MI6 safe house. The way he'd been devastated at Sherlock's death and how he refused to talk about it afterwards. The clothes. The way he'd smile when he came home from one of their adventures, like he'd just been on a particularly good date. The look of triumph in Sherlock's eyes when she'd fought with John. The kiss before he'd left for Dartmoor. The bruises on Sherlock's wrists.  
  
She was sure John wasn't gay, not with the way he looked at women. You couldn't fake the way his eyes lingered on a nice bit of cleavage or a great set of legs. Well, you could, but John wasn't that subtle. So not really gay, just gay for Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't blame him, not really. Once upon a time, she wouldn't have thought twice before shagging the man if Sherlock had ever paid her that kind of attention.  
  
She wasn't above feeling a little betrayed. It had been a long time coming though, and some part of her had known this since the day Sherlock walked into their house, looking half-dead but very much alive. Their whole relationship had always been somewhere between a lie and the truth, real and unreal, and now it was over. She shoved all her complex emotions and half-formed thoughts to the back of her mind and focussed on a course of action instead. Keeping the status quo through inaction had led them here, and now it was finally time to move on.  
  
She took her phone from the charger and typed out a text.  
 **  
He's yours now. Please come and collect him.**  
  
She hit send. She put her half-made lunch back in the fridge and went into the bedroom. John was in the shower. She packed herself enough clothing for a week, then sat on the bed and waited for John to finish up.  
  
When he emerged from the en suite, he immediately looked to the bag on the bed. He didn't say anything, but his defeated, guilty look was enough for her.  
  
"It's okay. Really, it is." She gave him her most encouraging smile.  
  
John's face crumpled, but he didn't cry. "I'm sorry Molly. I didn't-"  
  
"I know," she said firmly. She softened her tone. "These things happen." She hefted her bag off the bed and walked to the door. "You're a good man, John. I know you weren't trying to hurt me. I'll ring you at Baker Street when I get back and we can sort the details out then." And then she walked out.  
  
She got in her car and sat. She refused to cry. She waited for the cab to pull up and Sherlock to bound through the door to the building. Then she drove off.  
  
\----  
  
Molly was walking down the High Street when a book in the window of the newsagents' caught her eye. _Vacant House_ , by Jared Morstan. It couldn't be, could it? She went inside and picked up a copy of the book. She fumbled as she turned it over to read the back cover.  
  
 _When private detective Sheldon Sigerson had followed the criminal mastermind Seamus Duff to Denmark, he hadn't expected to fake his own death in order to catch a killer..._  
  
Molly flipped to the dedication page. It read simply:  
  
 _For my wife Mary, whose love and support saw me through dark times. And for SH, for everything._  
  
Molly felt a tug on her hand.  
  
Desmond peered up at her earnestly through his sandy blond fringe. He'd need it trimmed soon. "Mummy, can I have a chocolate bar?"  
  
" _May_ I have a chocolate bar," she corrected automatically.  
  
"May I have a chocolate bar?" His blue eyes widened. He knew exactly what worked on her. She'd have to watch that one, they'd all said, he's going to be quite the lady's man. They were right, of course.  
  
He picked out a Yorkie (oh, the power of slogans) and Molly paid for it, asking the clerk to add the book at the last minute.  
  
When she got home she sent Des out to the back garden to play. She went upstairs to her bedroom and pulled out her jewellery box. She removed the battered mint tin and unwrapped its contents. The thin gold band was cool in her palm, still shiny as the day she'd fished it out of her new handbag and slipped it on her finger. She toyed with it, then slid it on. She twisted it a bit with her thumb, then wrapped it back in the little square of soft cotton and closed up the mint tin. She put the jewellery box away and took her new book outside.  
  
She settled in the patio chair and began to read.


End file.
